


Four

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seriously this is 2K words of John fingering Sherlock, This makes all my previous PWPs look like they have plot, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 12:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Tell me how it feels," John orders."Good," Sherlock breathes, his usually extensive vocabulary failing him. "So, so good."He leans forward, sticking his arse up, begging without words, and John gasps, the fingers on Sherlock's hip clenching. Sherlock lowers his head between his arms, panting. He tries to imagine how he looks to John, naked, sweating, his legs spread wide, arse out, his hole stretched tight around John's fingers.





	Four

" _Fuck_."

The word escapes Sherlock's lips without his permission, as if forced out by the slick finger making its way into his arse. It's not the first time, but it feels so intense without the distraction of a mouth on his cock.

Behind him, John hums, a low, satisfied sound, and pushes the finger in all the way before stilling. His other hand is resting on Sherlock's hip, warm, firm, grounding, thumb rubbing steady circles over his skin. He's fully clothed, and knowing that makes Sherlock even more aware of his own nakedness. He swallows and shifts on his knees, spreading his legs wider. His fingers are aching already, gripping the headboard so hard his knuckles are standing out white against the rest of the skin.

The finger in him doesn't stretch him much, doesn't offer him the full feeling he craves. "More," he gasps.

Instead of complying, John pulls the finger out, all the way, and Sherlock whines at the loss.

"Please," he whispers before he has a chance to think. He needs it back. He needs more than one finger. He hasn't known it's possible to want this much, but John is using his body to teach him many things he hasn't known before.

"Begging already?" John asks, amusement evident in his voice, and the finger returns to his hole. It doesn't push in, only draws light circles around it before slipping lower and rubbing at his perineum. The lube feels cool against his sensitive skin, but John's finger is warm.

"I will if it–" the words dissolve into a grunt as John turns his hand and presses a knuckle against Sherlock's taint, _hard_ , "–if it makes you put it back in." It doesn't come out quite as haughty as he intended, and he drops his head and closes his eyes, swallowing thickly.

John's only answer is a low laugh, and then the finger is sliding back to Sherlock's waiting hole and pushing in to the knuckle. John's lips press a light kiss on Sherlock's back, right below the shoulder blade, and Sherlock can feel the heat of John's body behind him, so close but not quite touching.

He opens his eyes and looks down. His cock is hard and a drop of precome glistens at the tip, and his knees are spread wide on the towel John laid on the bed before they began. The finger in him starts rocking, and when it slides across his prostate again and again, more precome dribbles out of his cock and runs down along the shaft, almost ticking. Sherlock makes a needy sound and jerks his hips back to encourage John to do it more, harder.

"That's good," John tells him, pulls the finger out and pushes back in with two. "You're so good. Feel that? Feel how you open for me."

He does feel it, the new stretch, the beginnings of the fullness he needs, though it's not enough. Sweat breaks on his skin as John sets a steady rhythm, the fingers moving in and out with ease. The hand on his hip slides down, and he watches it as it trails lower to his leg. John's fingertips ghost along his inner thigh, where he's painfully sensitive and every touch sends an electric jolt to his cock.

The fingers in him focus on working on his prostate, alternating between rubbing back and forth across it and tracing circles around it, making his hips twist and jerk as spikes of pleasure run through his body. His cock is dripping precome, and he knows that if John touched it, if he put his wonderful, warm, steady hand on it, Sherlock would come in seconds.

John will not touch it, though, not before Sherlock is beyond desperation, begging for release until his voice is hoarse. That's how this game works.

"Fuck," he says again, because the thought of waiting is almost unbearable.

John leans closer and nuzzles his shoulder, licks at the sweat there. The soft wool of his jumper brushes against Sherlock's back. The hand on his thigh slips up, between his legs, and cups his aching bollocks. Sherlock cries out, hips jolting up as if the touch burns him, and John gives his sensitive sack a squeeze and pushes the fingers in him deep. Sherlock almost sobs.

The hand leaves him and returns to grip his hip, stilling him, calming. The fingers are thrusting now instead of stimulating his tortured prostate, though every shove still finds it, jab just shy of too hard against it. It's difficult to focus on anything but the pleasure.

"Third finger now," John tells him, and eases his ring finger into Sherlock along with the other two. "You're doing so well, your tight little arse is opening for me so beautifully."

Sherlock's hands tighten on the headboard. The stretch burns, but it's good and he wants it. John keeps the fingers still for a moment before he starts fucking Sherlock with them, slow, steady pushes deep into him. He's had toys inside him deeper, but they've all lacked the beautiful precision of John's fingers.

"Tell me how it feels," John orders.

" _Good_ ," Sherlock breathes, his usually extensive vocabulary failing him. "So, so good."

He leans forward, sticking his arse up, begging without words, and John gasps, the fingers on Sherlock's hip clenching. Sherlock lowers his head between his arms, panting. He tries to imagine how he looks to John, naked, sweating, his legs spread wide, arse out, his hole stretched tight around John's fingers.

"Oh, that's nice," John whispers. "God, you're so…"

He never finishes that thought, just keeps fingering Sherlock, deep, hard pushes into him. Sherlock shuffles his knees even wider, his legs aching now, watching as his cock leaks more precome on the towel. His balls are throbbing with the need to come.

"Please," he gasps.

John doesn't answer, only hums softly as he shifts closer, his clothed front pressed against Sherlock's back, his breathing hot against the back of Sherlock's neck. His cock, steely hard and trapped in his jeans, jabs into Sherlock's thigh. The fingers in him pull out, trace around the rim of his slick, stretched hole, teasing, then push back in, spreading him wide again. His thumb rubs Sherlock's perineum, and the added stimulation makes him feel as if he's on fire.

John's other hand rises to his hair, petting him gently, stroking through his sweat-damp curls. The touch is almost calming, and Sherlock nudges his head into John's hand. John kisses the back of his neck and keeps stroking his hair.

"Please," Sherlock repeats. "I want to _come_."

"Nuh-uh." John's hand slides from his hair to the back of his neck, pushing him down. "Not yet. Not before you have four fingers in you."

Sherlock freezes, a shiver running down his spine, goose bumps breaking out across his skin. "Oh _god_."

"Yeah. One more now," John says as he pulls his fingers out.

"John… I – I'm not sure–"

"Hush." John's hand slides down to rub at his tensed shoulders. "It's all right. You can take it, Sherlock. For me."

Sherlock swallows and takes a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, before nodding. He knows he can take it, and he wants to take it, because that's what John wants.

John hums, a low, satisfied sound, and presses a kiss on the sweaty nape of Sherlock's neck. There's the slick sound of John adding lube to his fingers, and then one of John's hands comes to rest on his chest, over his wildly beating hard.

Sherlock tries not to tense up when he feels the slick fingers back at his hole, pushing in, _in_ , and the noise that comes out of his mouth is absolutely not human. It doesn't hurt, per se, but it's too much, Sherlock is too full and too close and he needs to come more than he needs air.

"Shh," John whispers in his ear. The hand on his chest slides up and wraps around Sherlock's neck, tilting his head back. "It's so good, isn't it?"

Sherlock's eyes slide shut and he makes a choked noise, unable to produce an answer. He's not sure if he wants the fingers out, or if he wants them deeper, harder. His body is giving him mixed signals, aching and burning and so full of need it almost scares him.

"I could put my entire hand into you," John tells him as he twists the finger inside Sherlock, forces them against his prostate, and Sherlock's eyes fly open as he keens, high and sharp, at the thought of it. "You couldn't stop me. I could do anything, anything at all, and you'd be begging for more."

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock gasps. He can hardly see anymore, the entire world narrowed down to the stretch and the ache and the need he feels. "Please." He finds himself rocking back against the fingers, whimpering at the burn. He's never been stretched so wide, and it's glorious.

"Next time," John whispers into his ear, "I'm going to fuck you. My cock will go so deep inside you, force you open beyond what you've ever felt before, ruin you for anyone else. You will scream and scream and beg me to come inside you, so deep you'll never be rid of me. I'll make you come with my cock up your arse and you. Will. Love it." He punctuates the last words with rough pumps of his fingers, and all Sherlock can do is whimper with need.

John kisses the back of his neck, teeth scraping at his skin, and keeps fucking him with the fingers inside him, hard, and then the hand wrapped around his throat slides down, over his heaving, sweaty chest and quivering belly, until it stops above the curly thatch of pubic hair. Sherlock looks down, his hips jerking forward without his permission when he sees how close John's perfect hand is to where he wants it. His cock is red and swollen and dripping more precome on the towel.

"Please," he begs. "Touch me. John, please." His voice is broken and he's almost sobbing, and if John doesn't give it to him right now, he'll die.

The fingers in his arse slide out, then ram back in, and Sherlock is screaming wordlessly. He can feel the hand on his belly twitching, and then it's wrapped around his cock and he can't even scream anymore, he's just panting, mouth hanging open as he comes, his hips jerking and toes curling, and John's hands keep moving, on him, inside him, so good he can hardly believe it. John is whispering something against his back, but he's too far gone to make out the words, he can only feel the brush of lips on his skin.

For a while, Sherlock feels as if he's drifting, and when he finally comes back to himself, he's still hanging on to the headboard and making helpless little noises.

"There you are," John says, voice low and gentle. "You're so good, Sherlock, _so good_." His fingers aren't inside Sherlock anymore, and Sherlock feels empty and open, aching pleasantly.

"Oh god," he manages.

John kisses his cheek and reaches out to touch his hand, gentle fingers sliding across his knuckles.

"You can let go now. There, that's it."

"Oh god," Sherlock repeats and almost falls on his face on the bed. Only John's arm, wrapped around his chest, keeps him upright.

"Still a bit out of it? That's fine, let's get you to lie down."

Sherlock nods and allows himself to be manoeuvred until he's lying on his side, away from the wet spot of his own ejaculate. John picks up the towel and uses it to wipe Sherlock clean, then moves to lie behind him. He is hard in his jeans, pressed against Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock wants to do something about it, but he can hardly lift his arms. He manages a jerk of his hips, rubbing against John.

"Hush," John whispers. "It's all right."

"But…" The word is nothing more than a croak.

"Later," John tells him, arms tightening around him.

"Promise?"

"Promise," John says. "Now sleep."

Sherlock nods and allows himself to drift off, John's warm breath ghosting across the back of his neck.


End file.
